


The Unhappy Earl

by dorothy_notgale and Tromperie (dorothy_notgale)



Series: The Boys From the Castle [3]
Category: Eroica Yori Ai o Komete | From Eroica with Love, Lupin III, The Woman Called Fujiko Mine, Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: First Meeting, M/M, Names, Paris - Freeform, Pre-Series, Sex Work, Theft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-10-01 07:56:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10184546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorothy_notgale/pseuds/dorothy_notgale%20and%20Tromperie
Summary: Seventeen-year-old Dorian Red, Earl of Gloria, plays hooky from school during the Winter of 1972. In Paris, full of anxieties about his future, he meets two strange, haunted young men. Works of art, they all are."Bring me the two most precious things in the city," said God to one of His Angels; and the Angel brought Him the leaden heart and the dead bird.~The Happy Prince, Oscar Wilde (1888)





	

Dorian had been to Paris before, of course, on schoolboy trips and “vacations” whenever Father found the old homestead too choked with femininity to endure.

Father's friends had been all too happy to entertain Dorian, of course--when he wasn't being a damned nuisance.

Father'd been in the ground more than a year, and his “friends” had  gone the way of the dodo as well.

Hell, even the man he’d thought himself planning to visit--Robert Courtenay, Father’s closest companion a year or so back--hadn’t answered his wire last week. He’d kept a jewel collection, long ago; Dorian remembered being allowed to view it, even to wear a few pieces for fun, before being sent on his way.

It seemed he’d been sent on his way permanently with his Father’s passing, but the ticket was already bought and his escape from school already accomplished.

And Paris endured, eternally relevant as all true art was. 

So Dorian, at 17, continued his truancy from Eton a week before winter break in search of something else true.

(At least, that was what he’d told himself, and there  _ was _ something true about the pretty man and the pretty boy he met in the back room of a club.)

Their clothes were a crime unto themselves, shabby and ancient when the pair should've been dressed to complement their charmingly matched wavy hair--one red, the other black-and lovely eyes. Their bodies were young and lovely like his own; the redheaded one plump and soft as ripe fruit, fit to be painted by Botticelli (or Titian, given the hair), the other thin and spare a consumptive Pre-Raphaelite model. He found himself walking toward them, possessed of the need to correct this oversight with an unusual sense of emphatic focus. 

"Won't you sit down?" the redhead greeted him with a smile. The words seemed to startle his companion, who stared at Dorian in open suspicion before turning back to the boy in some strange wordless almost-conversation. It was the most peculiar thing Dorian had seen since arriving. He was delighted.

"It seems like I could be of help to you." He thought his well-chosen outfit, the soft (stolen) cashmere and the coat that hugged his body appealingly would speak for themselves, but the dark-haired man locked up as if he were at gunpoint.

"And what help do you intend, pray tell?" The red-haired one smiled slowly, his eyes glowing amber in the dark like those of a cat. "We're in no distress."

And though the redhead could be no older than Dorian himself, the other nodded along a beat later, like one responding to a cue.

Dorian faltered, for they were dreadfully in synch, a habituated sort of familiarity clear in their every movement.

It was very like love, the way he'd pictured it anyhow. Lord knew Mother and Father were no fit model, nor even Father and his “friends.”

Lord knew Dorian hadn't found it outside the painting of the Young Shepherd, and the boy in that was sadly incapable of reciprocation.

"I--I could..." he trailed off, dazed and hazy. He hadn't had any drinks in this discotheque, yet--

He felt as though something were off, and somehow he came to be seated beside the dark-haired one, who was youthful yet wore a frown line between his brows. Who cuddled up to Dorian sweetly, fitting under his arm.

It seemed in that moment he could do anything, beyond even the clever caprices of his own budding talents. What he did was nothing, beyond wrinkling his nose slightly at the smell of the man against him -- neglect and long nights and perfume. He was so pretty. It was like seeing a discarded jewel left to gather dust. 

The boy chuckled. "You haven't recommended yourself well."

Dorian puffed up at that -- it was enough to look at him, wasn't it? Wasn't he dashing and mysterious, more than any other man in this rundown hole? "Opportunities like this don't come along often," he boasted. "It would be a shame to miss it."

"I agree," smiled the boy. "Don't you?"

Again on cue, the man cuddling at his side nodded. Dorian could feel those thin fingers plucking at the fabric of his shirt, running some unknown calculation behind his eyes. It was suddenly very stuffy, like the whole place was a cage threatening to hold him.

"It's an irresistible night for a walk." He stood, and offered his hand to the small and silent man. "You'll join me, won't you?"

The man almost succeeded in hiding the look he directed to his companion. If people took Dorian as seriously as he deserved, they would've taken more care. As it was, he saw the whole of it -- uncertainty becoming acceptance. He disliked the uncertainty in his own stomach. He hated losing even more. And it seemed, without him even realizing, that a battle of wills had begun between him and the eerie young redhead.

The unease worsened when his companions for the evening went past the coat check without a single glance, even as Dorian tugged on his kidskin gloves and wrapped his scarf on to ward off the winter chill. Their cheekbones could cut glass, and their clothing might once have been acceptable Harris tweed, but nothing so old could be fit protection from the wind.

He began to suspect that while he was on the verge of losing his fortune, this was a whole different level of trouble.

But it was impolite to discuss money matters openly, and so he just shook his hair back and exclaimed in exaggerated relief, "Finally I can hear myself think! That music--I don't think I even caught either of your names."

Another strange moment of staring, and then the older of the two melted into ingratiating pleasure so sudden as to be patently false. "James. Os-- just James." His voice was odd, musical and weirdly accented somewhere between half a dozen languages. Dorian tried not to take the switch to English as an insult to his schoolboy French.

"You may call me Armand," said the other from some distance away, half vanished into the shadows. Arch little thing, and yet Dorian had forgotten for a moment that he was there.

"Well, I'm glad to know you both," he answered with a half-bow, and dared to take James’ hand in his own. Bold, but it was just friendly. If he seemed forward--men held hands all the time in France, didn't they?

And why hide anyway?

James’ flesh was cold even through the glove, his bones fragile-feeling like the skeleton of a bird, and he gave no resistance.

They walked along in silence for some time, the trees full of caught light and the streets echoing with the laughter of crowds driven inside by the chill. His new companions gave no sign of feeling it, though James’ cheeks were vivid red. 

"My hotel is said to have an excellent stock of wine," he tried, for once feeling his age. "Perhaps we could sample some together?"

"An intriguing offer." Armand's voice was a whisper on the wind, almost not there at all. "What a kind gentleman."

James said nothing, but he didn't object either as Dorian pulled him along. He was beginning to feel as though he'd stumbled across some test to his love of art--a living painting whose owner was quite willing to sell, for the right price.

Dorian's hotel was barely of acceptable amenities for someone such as himself. The walls were wooden and hung with foul-smelling taxidermy, the rooms overcluttered and the lounge dotted with worn-down travelers almost as ill-bedecked as his companions. It was all his handful of pocket change could get him.

Glancing over to make his excuses as he opened the door to his modest accommodations, he saw James’ face light up, his dark eyes brighter than they'd been all night.

They shone from under his fringe like black jewels. His lips parted, just slightly, and he raised a windchafed hand to hover uncertainly in the direction of the fireplace.

"Bit chilly in here, isn't it?" Dorian said, making a careless show of rubbing his own sweating palms and turning on the flames.

_ Don't look _ , he told himself.  _ Don't stare. Don't ask why this man defers so to a boy no older than yourself _ .

_ Oh Dorian, what have you gotten yourself into? _

Mr. James's smile was sweet, though, and there was something wonderfully shameless about how he dropped to his knees by the fireplace screen to bask in warmth Dorian feared he hadn't had in too long.

Dorian had enough money to eat for the week and to buy his ticket home, if he bothered. If he didn't just--

Armand shifted, amber eyes picking up the firelight, and Dorian walked to the telephone and called down for room service.

The staff came and went without a word, with little more than a glance at this strange party of young, beautiful men, the oldest of them enraptured of the fireplace like a child (which he looked, in his oversized clothes). 

Dorian coughed, something like British propriety still with him in spite of being called all the names in the book. 

"Can I interest you in something?"

His guest's head whipped around, his eyes now almost bugging out of his head at the sight of the modest meal laid out on the small desk along the wall. For the first time he failed to acknowledge his seeming master, darting over to the plates with twitching hands that reminded Dorian of his first visit to a gallery. It hurt his heart, suddenly, to see such rapture over provincial soups and clearly stale baguettes. 

"So," he tried, "Mr.....James, was it?" 

The man looked up from the plate, half a loaf dangling from his lips (the right size and circumference to imagine --  _ don't get ahead of yourself _ ). The man seemed only then to remember that there were others in the room. He swallowed hard, but instead of addressing Dorian he looked to Armand. 

His eyes were almost -- no, they were  _ obviously _ full of fear.

Just for a blink, though, and then he was all attention.

"Yes, My Lord?" He sat straight up, a rigid and nearly military bearing showing as he held on to his spoon. 

"Tell me about yourself," Dorian said, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. These places never had enough furniture. 

Mr. James's body language shifted again, and he took another bite of food before answering with a bright smile, "I'm nobody, sir. There's nothing to tell."

Firelight limned his features like a Renaissance painting as he turned his chair just slightly in Dorian's direction. Just enough that the tip of his scuffed brogue touched the toe of Dorian's boot.

"But tell us about yourself. Why are you visiting Paris?" he prompted Dorian.

_ Us _ .

Meanwhile Armand, not eating or warming himself, reached into his pocket and pulled out a little English-language paperback that he couldn't possibly see in the dim lighting.

It was almost like privacy, the disregard he showed, and it was enough for Dorian that an owner had become careless with their belongings.

So he smiled and worked to impress, taking a few bites of food himself only to be hospitable, pouring wine because he could.

"Well. I told you I'm an Earl.” Had he? He must have, with how comfortably Mr. James used the nomenclature. “ That wasn't just a line. I just finished up my term--" Let them think at university, and assume him older than his years. His height had been kind that way. "And I wanted a holiday somewhere without the rest of the family tying me down, so here I am." He waved grandly to the shabby room, willing it to become as fine as Mr. James's face said.

"I see." Mr. James sipped at the red wine almost too eagerly, the flush on his cheeks no longer accountable to the cold, and nodded at nothing. "What do you study, if I might ask?"

"Art. Art History." It was almost true, for he would if he could stand to be tied down in those places for another who knew how many years, looking at photographs of art instead of the works themselves and keeping his hair clipped and respectable. Keeping himself respectable. "Have you any interest?"

He'd come to Paris to see the Louvre's contents; he'd wanted to do so once more before he died.

"Not directly, though art crime is..." Mr. James trailed off, then resumed as though it were all one thought. "I studied German literature once, but there's no money in it."

Dorian scoffed, hiding it behind his hand. The Germans were an unbearable lot, with their overserious faces and  _ sturm und drang _ . Never mind that the uniforms made for rather a nice fit. It simply wasn't worth the fuss, except to savor their scandalized faces at his debauchery. "How interesting," he said instead.

Mr. James tilted his head, listening to nothing, another of those peculiar shivers running through him. And then he leaned in, tipsy, and whispered. "I have a piece of art. It's rare." 

"Oh?" It was unconventional as a come-on, and it was somewhat insulting to hear his genuine interest used so cheaply. 

But his new companion was nodding, as if he had a great secret. "Do you know the Painted Lady?"

"An urban legend, they say." Or so the story had been pitched to him after the fact, perhaps to hide that no one had ever been skilled enough to possess her. 

James giggled at that. "Look." He loosened the first two buttons of his conservative shirt, peeling back the fabric to reveal a rich blue pattern of tattoos, intricate in their design and impeccable in their craftsmanship. 

He'd found a treasure after all. His hands almost shook as he reached out. "May I?" He thought to ask, and to both parties his request seemed almost comical. Mr. James scooted closer nonetheless, yielding himself to touch. Enjoying it even, at a stretch, though his eyes flicked back every now and then to the unfinished spread.

Dorian's tastes ran to the representational; to his mind, abstract and modern paled compared to a fine portrait or sculpture. But this--even if it weren't surpassing rare to see such fine, intricate work, it was  _ alive _ . The artwork moved and breathed with its smooth canvas, almost invited tactile interaction simply by existing. The curling lines wrapped around his shape, rather than laying flat.

It was the epitome of a medium used to its fullest extent, and Dorian's mouth watered in simple greed.

James shrugged the shirt open and lowered it to allow Dorian's interest to be fulfilled.

"That's the whole thing?"

It was enormous, surely hours of work, and beautiful. But it covered perhaps a bit less than a quarter of his thin torso.

"All he did. He wasn't finished when they took me." His eyes snapped back to the present, and Dorian heard James’ breath coming oddly fast, mirror to his own. The nipple beneath his fingers hardened, and James let out the smallest of  _ sounds _ . "Please--"

"Please what?" Dorian whispered back, wine abandoned and one hand raised almost to touch the man's cheek. "What can I--" He was no hero, he wasn't, but if he couldn't save this strange thing he wished he could at least steal it for his own. "What can I do?"

"Anything." That false seduction flared and flickered, coming in and out. 

"You're sure?" He bent his lips to that long, pale throat. 

James' throat bobbed, and he nodded, his now-warm hands reaching up to stroke Dorian's hair. It was a slow and timid thing--Dorian had his share of experiences, but he was still used to tempting older men who wanted to use him and winking gently to younger ones who would blush and fluster shyly. James was neither and both. He was  _ there _ \--sighing, holding tight, making all the appreciative noises (his mouth was quite appreciative in many ways, in fact)--but something held him apart. There was a certain distance in his eyes, looking at something Dorian couldn't see. 

When it was done James stood without ceremony, as if that was all there was to it, and went to that darkened corner of the little room. Dorian had forgotten, somehow, though looking now he didn't understand how he could possibly have missed those piercing eyes, even in the midst of passion. Something very strange was at work here, like the old bedtime stories of the fair folk he'd heard as a child.

The boy seemed distracted, too, nose buried in the little trash novel for long moments until finally James reached out and touched his shoulder.

"Hmm?"

James' naked body curled in on itself at the languid sound.

"It's finished."

And  _ then _ the other boy looked up, seeming to fight free of a trance as well.

"I see." His manner hardened even as a smile spread across his portrait-worthy features. Lewd, how casually he touched James's smeared and spent cock, how the tip of his tongue flicked out when he asked, "Did you receive your payment?"

"No." James shook again when the boy leaned in and kissed his throat, and Dorian flinched.

"Shall I receive it, then?" Silky, slimy, and Dorian hastened to grab his wallet and the remaining cash in it.

"I apologize, Mr. James," he managed. "It was never my intention to cheat you." Never that, the worst kind of theft. Hands and bodies and false promises that it would all be worth it--

He forced himself not to care about the glowing amber eyes on him, so cold, as he put the money directly in James' eager hand, put the shocked gratitude out of his mind.

"Is it enough, my Oscar?" the boy asked with sweet malice, and James counted and nodded and  _ smiled _ .

"Well, then. Get dressed; I haven't fed yet tonight."

"You could eat here," Dorian said, not really as an invitation to the boy but rather an excuse to see his apparent prostitute for the night finish dinner. He was too thin; his ribs had pressed Dorian's body too easily.

"I could, at that," Armand said delightedly, before James grabbed his arm.

"No."

"No?"

"N-no, please. I would. Prefer. If you didn't."

And then Armand shifted again, softening, gathering his...property...into an embrace gentler than anything Dorian had seen that night.

"Shameless child," he whispered. "Whatever you prefer."

The pair departed with little fanfare, James' hand laced with his keeper's. Whether the glance he spared over his shoulder was for Dorian or the food was unclear. Dorian could flatter himself that he was talented, that the sigh of pleasure James had made wasn't the work of an actor. But it didn't matter, or it shouldn't, when the reality was that he was now sitting in a room he could no longer afford to pay for, in a strange city where he had come looking for art and truth. 

Well, he had found his art. The next priority of a thief was to understand the defenses standing in his way. 

He went to the Louvre as he'd intended, walking the halls with something akin to rapture in his chest. Or it should've been. They were beautiful paintings, criminally confined on these white walls. He wanted them as he had at 13, when he'd found himself on a path set by his own trusting foolishness. 

He was still thinking of James, and the smile he'd given while wrapped in Dorian's arms. Unreadable as the Mona Lisa, and yet part of him was so sure...

Only his own ego.

He couldn't even be sure he'd find them again. He could return to the discotheque, but they had been obviously out of place there in retrospect. He'd had a chance encounter with something like fate, and now it was taunting him.

He wondered whether the school had contacted his mother yet, and whether she'd care. At least the hotel had a correct address, should she need to be called.

Walking through the seedier parts of the City of Lights, last night was insubstantial. Dreamlike. If not for the loss of his entire bankroll and the silverware from dinner, he'd think it all a fancy conjured by his own mind.

And then, by a fountain--very nearly  _ in _ a fountain--he saw the object of his thoughts.

Mr. James looked different in sunlight, better and worse at once. He was dreadfully pale, and there were no shadows to hide the redness of his ungloved fingers now. But there was an alertness to his eyes as he reached into the near-frozen waters of the fountain, snatching up people's wishes one by one.

After some minutes watching the odd, focused contentment of the man, Dorian dared to speak.

"Are you saving for something, Mr. James?"

It had been business, just a transaction--something fairly paid for instead of a cheat or a debt. So Dorian strove for a light, casual voice, and very nearly made it judging by the calm in onyx eyes.

"I like coins. Are you here to throw one? Because giving them to me is faster."

"I wish I had one to throw for you, darling, but I'm afraid I'm flat broke at the moment." True and patently false--however badly off the family's finances, Dorian would always have enough to live. He could wire home at any moment, if he truly needed it enough to let his mother find him.

"Hmm." The interest in the little man's eyes died, and he turned back to the fountain, wading in to reach greater spoils. "Shame."

Dorian wasn't used to being ignored. Harangued, harassed, and maybe even dismissed, but not ignored. He didn't like it. "It just so happens," he said to a back he now knew intimately beneath its frayed coat. "That I've come to Paris in search of a business venture." 

"Armand isn't here." His feet had to be turning blue. He shoved another few francs into his pockets. 

"I'd hoped I could speak with you." Dorian held out his hand, enjoying the thrill of gallantry. Perhaps this theft might be easier than he'd thought. "Won't you come with me?" 

James eyed the hand with suspicion, doing the same back and forth calculation between it and the fountain as he'd done the night before with dinner. At last he relented, sloshing out of the water and taking Dorian's hand almost without thought. 

Dorian took the opportunity to kiss the chill flesh, almost without thinking. It wouldn't be anything to someone who lived on sex as a job, but-- 

He heard a choking sound. Looking up, he saw that James' eyes had gone wide, a peculiar and panicked redness on his face. He was looking around again, as if he'd lost his grip and was falling from some incredible height.

"I'm sorry," Dorian said hastily, "Was that not--Should I not--" he tried to snatch his hand back, but James hung onto it, tumbling down from the edge of the fountain into Dorian's arms.

"It's all right." James's hair blew in the winter wind, coming up off his sharp face here and there. His mouth--surely it couldn't be natural, such red lips.

Surely it was the cold sinking into his bird's bones; Dorian shucked his coat and wrapped it about his find almost savagely.

"Where are your shoes?" he asked rather than look deeper into those mad hungry eyes. He received a quiet shrug in response and nothing more.

He was out of his depth. He'd known it was sad, hopeless even--everyone knew dreams didn't come true. Just look at Father, living on borrowed time and dreams he couldn't pay for, a pain to everyone around him.

But he hadn't realized it could be like this, lovers who didn't love or want or perhaps even  _ feel _ for one another the way Dorian felt.

He bundled his treasure along with him, walking aimlessly until somehow the little man took the lead in the thing, guiding him through the streets not quite purposefully until they came upon a bridge. Dorian stalled there, looking down into the chill dark waters.

"I'll give it back," James said quietly, kneading at the wool that fell well below fashionable length on his shorter form. "If I'm not of use to you. I can find paying customers."

"What?" The water seemed so engrossing, suddenly peaceful. "No, that's alright. You can keep it." The money. The coat. Maybe he didn't need it. 

James' one visible eye narrowed. "Why." Even as he said it his hands gripped the fabric tighter, as if Dorian meant to fool him into letting his guard down. 

"You seemed as if you needed it, that's all." He'd not done much good for anybody, really. Not his mother or sisters, certainly. He'd said he didn't care. He'd half convinced himself of it, even. 

"Are you going to jump?" James was in his space, so suddenly that Dorian's feet DID leave the ground. 

"I don't know." What point was there in putting on a show for this little stranger? "Perhaps you should find your friend." 

"He'll come when he wants me." James' hand fluttered dismissively, and Dorian was sure he imagined the mischievous glint at the entendre. "I'm busy." 

"Oh?" He humored him. 

"I can't stand seeing something valuable go to waste." James' shoulders drew back. He was taller than Dorian had thought, if still much shorter than his own six feet. "People throw away things all the time that are still useful! They get bored, or lazy, and can't be bothered with it. They just..." He lapsed into silence, for so long that Dorian thought he'd lost the thread of it. Then his head snapped up. "And now you're throwing yourself away!"

"Why darling, what else am I going to do? I  _ am _ a waste, you know." Who knew what the school would do about his skipping out during exams. "Like father, like son."

"Not always," James insisted, childishly stubborn but deadly serious. "You have a life. You know who you are, don't you? What you want?"

What  _ didn't _ Dorian want? Art. Freedom. Men, pretty ones who weren't so dreadfully thin who could love him and be loved by him. Family, besides Mother and the girls.

Money, enough for all the rest to follow.

"Right now?" He snorted softly, indelicately, as indelicate as discussing money in company. "All I want is a good accountant." He smiled and knew it to be ugly. His features weren't made for that.

"Why?"

"Nothing, lovely," Dorian said, turning away from the mesmerizing waters. "Don't worry yourself."

"Coward," said that same voice, but with an air of cold seriousness, not mature but intense. "Have you no pride?"

"You're one to talk!" Dorian exploded, "Letting me--letting men-- _ do _ that to you, like you're not--"

Pot; kettle. And James showed a demented dignity when he drew himself up.

"I'm nobody, but I have value. Pride. I don't do--it--for nothing, and I'm not alone at night. Can you say as much?"

Dorian didn't have many friends. There were boys at school who fawned because they lusted after him, and those who hated him for the same reason; girls who wanted to touch his hair, and got angry when he didn't want to kiss them. There were his father's friends, some of whom smiled distantly at him and some who were not so distant at all. 

"I don't think of love as a transaction," he sniffed, trying for some foolish higher ground in an argument that shouldn't matter. Pretending sex and love were the same, as if he didn’t know better.

"Love?" 

"You know what love is, don't you?" It wouldn't surprise him to find that James was secretly a robot set loose from one of those spy novels. 

"Of course I do," he snapped. "It's got nothing to do with  _ that _ . It's for the money." 

Dorian rose to the challenge, turning away from the water. "Well, how about it then? Have you ever loved anyone?" 

"None of your business!"

"You started it!" They were nose to nose, Dorian bent so far over to do it that his hair fell around them both in a cloud. He'd only decided to grow it a few months ago. It was the first thing that had really seemed right. 

"If you want me to tell you," James' voice slowed in the way that meant calculation, figures run. "You have to bring me something. Something worth the exchange." 

"Just like  _ it _ ?" 

"Not that." James looked away, scowling. It looked almost adorable on his cherubic little face.

"I don't have anything worth trading," Dorian said baldly, and speaking it aloud made it really hit home. "I'm just--what I am."

But James didn't seem off-put, if he even could be. Were standards something that mad rentboys had?

He was waiting. And so.

"It wasn't enough," Dorian tried after a few moments, feeling foolish justifying himself to one from the lowest gutters of society, a common whore; but it  _ was _ common, and maybe James could show him why. " _ I _ wasn't enough. I had the chance, once, to earn what I loved, but it was a cheat."

"You couldn't get him, no matter how you loved him. He couldn't love you back." Voice soft as wingbeats in the dark; face grave in the lengthening shadows of evening. And his eyes, God, his eyes fixed on something far away with a longing that made Dorian ache; was this all? All there was?

"Yes. No." He wouldn't sob, wouldn't cry; those were unmanly, and however much of a little queer he was, he wouldn't shame the name. Even Father had had the good grace to die in an “accident.” Goddamn him and his debts. "He--he wasn't real."

Just an artwork, safe and untouchable in his frame. Worth the indignities of the flesh to possess.

"No," James echoed. "He wasn't." And then something pulled at him, like a string tugged taut. He turned and started walking, as if he'd forgotten Dorian was there. 

"Where are you going?" Dorian called. When had it gotten so dark?

"I don't want him to find me yet. I'm going to hide," said casually, as if that was how lovers were meant to act. "You can pay me later." 

"Pay you? I didn't--" he fell off, flustered. "I'm leaving!" He shouted as poor punctuation.

"You owe me," he thought he heard, but James was already out of sight.

People were staring at him. At his unusually flushed face. At his clothes, which were too outlandish for his boarding school and yet positively drab on these fashionable streets. He was caught between, like a chrysalis being tugged open. Soon he'd ooze out all over the street, stillborn and half-formed. 

Well. He couldn't go back to the hotel. He hadn't planned on it, when he gave away his money. The brief flare of anger had curdled something in his stomach. The Seine was no longer so appealing. What was glorious about that, anyway? Just another dead queen floating up on shore, another in a lineup of statistics, skull cracked and clothes ruined by the muck of the river. 

"'Debt,'" he scoffed to himself, even as he considered it. He might die in the pursuit, he supposed. If he picked something grand. That might be a fitting end. He'd never really....well, of course he HAD. Little things he wanted more than anything from around the dorms, or things he just wanted to make sure his mother  _ didn’t _ have, to prove he'd been there.

He was outfitted all wrong, he found himself thinking. Too many bright colors. Were there still shops open? Wheels spun, his pulse beating steady music as a plan began to come together. 

He had come to see the Louvre, but...it felt almost shameful to the art to take it as he was now, scrambling by on his instincts. Those beautiful paintings deserved his full attention, his greatest effort. Yes, the very thought was appealing. 

He had three days before he would need to decide where he belonged in the world. Time enough, at least for this.

 

*

 

Three nights, two days. Time enough to scout the place from a distance, hair tucked up under a cap, face dull and eyes watchful. Time enough to get closer, blending with the other young men who sashayed in and out of Courtenay's home. An invitation would have been easier, but who knew whether Courtenay would grant one without some expectation--and even then, that wasn't the point.

The point was to be what he was: Invisible. Undetectable.

Unignorable.

And so what if he  _ liked _ it, the magic that transformed the quickly acquired black bellbottoms and turtleneck into a dashing costume as he crept through so humble an ingress as a neglected servant's passage? Romance should always be its own gratification, should it not?

So what if lifting the glass door of the display case reminded him of reaching out and touching James's scored and imprinted flesh in that seedy little room?

He could have taken anything--the whole lot. It was criminal, this lack of concern for such valuable belongings, but let Robert reap the consequences. Dorian cared for only one prize: Onyx in silver, filigree necklace and earrings and bracelet all matched. Sparkling black gems to match James's eyes in the moonlight.

Exquisite, it was, and undocumented. No provenance meant easy to fence, and worse things besides, but Robert never discussed the war and didn't deserve the set anyhow.

Dorian tucked it all into a pouch, and that into a sling inside his shirt, almost disappointed by the lack of fuss. It was so...simple. No one had seen him or made any comment, and some reckless part of him wanted to kick something over as he left just so he would be noticed. He bit his lip, hard, fighting to reel himself back in. He had his prize. He wanted to see James's face when he brought it. 

He couldn't be caught and sent to prison. He'd rot, and they'd make him cut his hair. But he couldn't leave NOTHING. 

He patted himself down,  looking for something he could spare; finding the paper he'd scrawled directions to the mansion on, he tore off an unwritten on portion and pressed a kiss to it. The gloss he'd bought on a whim barely made an impression, but it was something. A sign that disregarding him was dangerous. 

He left the door open for good measure. 

 

*

 

The more difficult task by far was finding James again. Paris was huge, and full of dozens of empty, seedy rooms where a worker could ply their wares. Dorian wandered the streets, looking helplessly into the doorways of bars while priceless jewels clicked against his skin. 

He caught sight of flame-bright hair in the dark, leaning over a balcony like a beacon. When he looked again they were normal, auburn curls, but the effect was the same. The boy was looking at him, watching with one eyebrow raised as if in a dare. 

Dorian certainly didn't intend to back down from a challenge now. 

He climbed the rickety staircase as if he had lived there for years, rapping hard on the door he guessed matched up to the balcony. 

There was no answer, and after a few minutes had passed irritation began to tickle his nerves. He was being ignored again. He knelt, pulling the spare lockpick he'd brought along for insurance out of his hair. Everything about the building screamed that it could fall down any day, and sure enough, the tumblers yielded to the simple pick in a matter of minutes. 

Armand sat on a dilapidated couch inside, flipping through a magazine with disinterest. James was nowhere to be seen. 

He'd underestimated which was the more dauntingly guarded treasure, it seemed.

"Hallo," he said like a damned fool trying to visit a school friend, "Is James--"

"Busy," Armand replied, flipping a page in a book Dorian would swear he'd seen brand-new, now worn to near destruction as though by a thousand rereads. "Occupied."

It hurt unaccountably to think of strangers, unworthy men, reaching out and touching those beautiful tattoos. Touching other things, thrusting up into James's sweet, chill body.

He could get syphilis, for God's sake, rot that snub nose right off his face.

Armand's eyes flashed with something as Dorian shoved his hands in his pockets rather than make any more mistakes.

"You worry for him. You... want him? To be his patron?" How did one get so jaded, so casual about this at so young an age, when by rights he should be in school? How lost to romance was this boy-pimp?

"I can't.” Dorian swallowed around the lump in his throat. "My life wouldn't allow me to. Keep him."

"But you have a life." The boy moved oddly, gliding almost, as he approached. "He asked me for one, when I found him. Gives me everything, thinking that this  _ is _ life, but it's a cheat. And he has no life to show me, either."

He was cold against Dorian's body, very like James, but Dorian felt revulsion rather than the desire to warm  _ this _ broken porcelain doll.

"He will die soon, you know, though that's not his desire. Not like you." Cold, cold. There had been a necklace of amber in that place that Dorian had left, globules honeyed and round glowing like these eyes.

Hard hands were tracing paths he knew too well from the first time, with Price. Nobody else had done it  _ quite _ that way--

"We're alike."

"We're not." He said it without thinking, jerking back from the touch. 

Armand seemed nonplussed. He folded his arms, watching Dorian fuss nervously with his hair, as if he could hear the very beat of his heart. "Give it to me."

"What?" He forced himself not to shield the jewels with his hand.

"Your gift. I'll give it to them." Armand held out his hand. "If they want it, they'll see you again."

Dorian was on the verge of a lie when Armand looked directly to where the necklace was hidden. "I wanted to give it to him," he admitted instead.

"You'll distract them." Armand hadn't moved, hand still outstretched. "They'll want you, not your gesture."

"He..." Dorian felt himself warm, like a child instead of the adult he had to be. "How do I know you'll give it to him?"

"You don't."

He held his ground. "If I wait?" 

"You won't see them." Something in the way he said it sent a chill through Dorian's guts.

Classes began tomorrow. He was out of time to wait.

Refusing to break eye contact, he fished the necklace from its hiding place and laid it, heavy with more than its weight, in that cold hand.

"They'll know you were here." Armand licked his lips, finally awkward like Dorian. "I will tell them their Marquis left it. Jewels, in your memory."

"Earl, not Marquess." Silly to insist on his precise rank to this urchin, but it was only--proper.

"Conti… My apologies, Signore." Armand sketched a courtly, ancient little bow, too practiced for reality. "You remind me of someone on whom I've been thinking lately."

Dorian half-turned away, fisting one hand in his own hair.

"And it isn't--mine," he added, difficult though it was to admit. He couldn't afford things proper; the one time he  _ had _ paid, look what it got him. "Strictly speaking. He'll need to be careful selling it, or you will, if you do it for him."

"I see. A proof of your value. Useful." The boy held the beautiful work up to the light, and it glittered like a night river full of stars. "They don't need me for that; they know more of crime in this time than I, by far. It's only the living that they lack."

There was ceremony in how he laid the jewelry, with its coils and curves, in a discarded  soap box. Gravity to how he took Dorian's hand.

"You said you cannot keep them. But you would, if you could?"

"I--"

Of course he would. Art, a beauty, and so in need of a hero. Dorian closed his eyes.

"If you cannot even say it, then you surely can't act." Cold, gentle breath on his neck. His pulse jumped. 

"He would always be welcome." It was all he could say. A foolish promise -- "always" was as little as a day, as the few minutes to climax, in the wrong hands. "If he wants it." 

"You see a man." A soft  _ hmm _ . "That does seem to suit them of late. Perhaps they've been changing after all." 

More riddles, tying his head up in circles. "Are we done here?" It wasn't polite, but neither was the boy.

"Yes," Something pressed his throat, then retreated. "We are." 

Dorian opened his eyes. Armand had stepped back and was smiling at him, an image that quickly gave way to disinterest. He heard a sharp gasp from the next room, and two more in tandem--high and low, pained and possessive. 

Coward that he was, he ran. 

 

*

 

England was unbearably drab. The weather had been notified of his arrival, pressing down with a heavy fog that dampened his hair and left him shivering without a decent coat. No one at school commented on his absence. He'd at least expected to be pulled into the headmaster's office for a perfunctory scolding, but no. It seemed that they had all written him off as a lost cause. His mother left him a telephone message that was all sighs and slights, the ghost of his father hanging over them both.

He finished the year, because how could he not? If James could want to live in that way, Dorian  _ must _ soldier on with his little troubles. And so he laughed, kissed ordinary boys with ordinary eyes and ordinary minds. Got up to common mischief, became a right ledge for stealing the awards meant to be given for the Fourth of June festivities from under the eyes of the navally bedecked participants (which was a treat in itself). What a fine prank.

_ What a clever boy. _

_ How are you going to enjoy college, then, Dorian? They won't let you play up so there. _

_ How are you going to like business? _

(His place at the finest universities was assured by his birth, if not his grades or his finances.)

He could run, of course. It would be easy enough to vanish into the night, all alone in the world, and try to make his way. But he'd seen too much of what that looked like to want it.

And then, less than a month after his eighteenth birthday and less than a month before school began again, there came a knock at the door of the townhouse.

He recognized the visitor instantly--he was unmistakable, no amount of better conditions would change that. But--

"How did you find me?"

"Tracked you by the theft," James said faux-nonchalantly, unable to cover his simmering pride. "Courtenay's circle of friends was only so big, and you were clearly English. I had insider information."

"Then you-"

"I sold it," he said without hesitation. "The money got me here." 

Dorian was glad, of course. Those gems were clouded with illicit doings, the kind worth feeling ashamed of. Not like this man, who'd done nothing but survive. Knowing that didn't calm the part of him that was crushed, that wanted more than any treasure to capture the look on James' face when he received it. Had he been baffled? Disgusted? Pleased? 

"I see," he managed. 

"It was worth a lot. Enough that I could ride in a seat and not with the luggage in back." As if that alone were something Dorian should be proud about. He was gearing up to be miffed, and almost missed the addendum. "It was beautiful," James mumbled down to his shoes. 

"Would you like to come in?" Dorian stepped back from the entrance. If nothing else came of it he'd scandalize the neighborhood, letting in this vagrant in a patched and still fraying suit. 

James' visible eye popped as he entered the foyer, transfixed by the electric lighting and the clean carpets. Dorian found the place terribly pedestrian, and ugly to boot. But reflected in that expression it might well have been a palace. 

If only Dorian could show him a real one. 

"Why've you come?" He seated himself on the sofa as if this were a proper meeting. 

"You said you needed an accountant." James folded himself into a high backed chair, knees together and arms drawn in. Taking up as little space as possible.

"I what?" He blinked. He'd said it so carelessly that it took almost a minute for the memory to come back to him. The bridge over the Seine. His desire to wash himself away, before spite had become enough to hold onto in the interim. 

James nodded, taking his confusion for interest. "I'm talented. I know what to do. I did it all the time." Where or when, he didn't say. "I can do anything you need. Only," his hands bunched into fists against his knees. "Only I want you to kiss me!"

The simplicity of it bowled him over. James had showed no shyness with him in Paris that night, with his strange keeper at the periphery. This seemed utterly alien.

"You. Actually want that?" Dorian swallowed, mouth dry, at the look in that eye. Like he'd done something, aside of running like a thief in the night. Like he was  _ heroic _ .

"I feel things," James said, nodding so vigorously that his loose curls bounced. "But I wasn't supposed to--I  _ thought _ I wasn't supposed to want it, and then I thought I was nothing  _ but _ it." His hands clenched against his knees, one patched with a square of houndstooth wool, and then they relaxed. "I like knowing what people need from me. And I like--it."

He had the prettiest mouth: warm and blushed, like he was wearing lipstick.

"I like you." Dorian leaned in slowly, running through every classmate and chance encounter he'd had and trying to recall one perfect enough to impress a man so much more  _ experienced _ .

It began slowly, ever-so-ginger, their only points of contact the brush of lips and Dorian cupping James' sun-warmed cheek.

"My Lord," James whispered when they broke, raising his hands to Dorian's stooped shoulders. Dorian wanted to go to his knees before this wonderful thing he'd left behind, but he'd not been asked for that. Only for a kiss to break the spell on his Snow White.

And James did look like one coming out of a long sleep.

"Oh," was all those proud lips had to say before Dorian was pulled in again. Greedy, insatiable, just like him. 

Dorian snaked his arms around James' body, feeling the fragility of it. The man seemed somehow thinner than the last time, though the yielding was gone. This James was all rigid insistence, and strangely inelegant. He kissed as if this were his last meal before the walk to the guillotine, and even the wretched degenerate of Gloria, generation the second, had to pull away. 

"You needn't work so hard." He couldn't resist cupping James' face in his hand. "Didn't I say I like you?"    
He was rewarded with a red flush that worked its way up from James' neck. Dorian half expected to see little puffs of steam erupt from the top of James' head. His heart constricted further.

"It's not for you!" James complained. "That one was for me. You underpaid me last time." 

"Oh?" Was it still that old game? He supposed he couldn't begrudge it. When one had talents, it was a shame not to use them. "Shall we agree to terms, then?" His mother was doing her best to cut him off completely, but he had his ways.

As if it physically pained him to say it, James mumbled, "I don't want any money."

“Yes you do, my--you do, don’t you?” Dorian lifted the swooping fringe out of the way so as to meet both of James’ eyes. “I won’t cheat you. It matters.”

“Not as an exchange.” James’s brow furrowed. “Money is important, but not--if you want me, then you must agree that we’ll share this.”

_ If _ he wanted…

“Of course, my treasure.” He leaned up, evincing all the winsome invitation he’d used to earn high marks in classes with susceptible masters frightened of just what they’d do if left alone with him, and just before James’ mouth took his again, he whispered, “But you must agree that we’ll do this properly.”

They froze.

“P-properly? There’s nothing proper to this. We’re.” He seemed to grope for a word to encompass their shared oddity, and Dorian nodded understanding.

“Not properly, then. Romantically. Come up to my room?” Shocking presumption, and so far beyond what  _ should _ be done. But it was different, somehow, and Dorian wanted to mark it out as such. A man in his actual  _ bed, _ and a piece of art besides.

He took James' hand to help him rise, and didn't let go as they walked up the little staircase to a glorified loft. Dorian's bed barely fit in the small, impeccably English space, with its thin walls crowded on either side even in this place of supposed luxury. James seemed to forget Dorian was there as he walked in and threw himself face-first into the plush mattress, making an angel-shaped impression. 

It was impossibly adorable. Dorian's hand went to his mouth to hide his smile, and he caught James looking over his shoulder. His teeth caught the edge of a pillow and he bit down, eyes on Dorian all the while. 

So much for forgetting him. 

His own vanity reared its head, shaped to his advantage. "Those are thousand count, you know. If you lay there in those old clothes, you'll ruin the fabric." He kneeled, pulling on the chewed laces of James shoes and then the hole-ridden socks underneath. And then, hero that he wasn't, he gently kissed the top of James' foot. 

James squirmed out of his touch, sitting up as if in shock. That dichotomy again--radiant in suggestions that would make dock workers blush (and Dorian was no stranger to those, either), and then flailing as if he'd never been kissed at the strangest things. 

Better to take things slow. He was warming to this whole prince idea, even if he wouldn't admit it. "Did I scare you?"

“You couldn’t scare me,” James sniffed dismissively.

“I’m a dreadful thief in the night, lovely, and you are terribly skittish.” Even as he said it, he was reaching out a hand and expecting a flinch--something to stop him, to let him demonstrate how  _ different _ he was from all the rest.

“Dreadful, indeed.” His sloe eye narrowed. “One I could catch.”

“Thieves are easy to catch, James.” Dorian put a hand to the cheek much warmer and fuller than he remembered (and let it be faulty memory, let him believe that rather than that the person he’d made love to for a few mixed francs and pounds had been that frail.) “You simply need the right bait. Something they desire more than all else.”

Dorian had desired a reason to live. He still didn’t quite have it, but James had given him a reason not to die.

And James was unbuttoning Dorian’s floral-print shirt, letting it fall open in a vee to his waistband. Piratical, and he was glad of his time in gymnastics for making it an appealing picture.

“You’re so young,” James said in that disjointed way he had. “But you don’t let others awe you.”

“I save my awe for eternal things.”

“Hmm.” James’s legs were miles long, despite his small stature. They twined about Dorian’s like climbing ivy. “You’d best define that; some that last forever are as disappointing as everyone else.”

"You're talking like an old man," he teased. Thoughts of Giorgione’s Young Shepherd filled his mind--could that really be called a disappointment? It had been nothing but what it was. It was his own fault for imagining it could be real, step out and run to him in the wake of feeling cheated and worse. But it was only a painting. If it had been real, it would've stopped being perfect.

"I'm older than you," James pouted, submitting to Dorian's hands in his jacket, sliding it free to crumple on the ground. 

"I don't believe it." He looked just the same as he had a year ago, too young to be in a club the same as Dorian. He rose up to kiss James' neck, meaning to work up to his pretty little ears, and was greeted again with stillness. This close, he could see scars--soft and pink and round, fairytale perfect. 

"Don't stop," James breathed, still frozen. 

Dorian knew about scars. He knew better than to demand reasons for them--thieves lived and died on their freedom, even freedom from themselves. But this was like handling a Ming vase only to discover that it had been dropped and hastily glued together again. 

He pulled back, and found James' expression had gone hard. "You don't want me." His arms reached up to wrap around Dorian's neck, to pull him back in. "I told you I'm useful." 

"I don't want to use you." Never that. A true romantic knew that love came and went freely. You might chase it, but caging it was the surest way to see it gasp and die. 

"Well I do!" James tugged hard, overbalancing both of them--he landed on his back with Dorian's weight sprawled awkwardly across him. The frail man looked winded and thoroughly displeased. "I told you what I wanted, so why are you so..." his mouth twisted, trying to find the words. "Womanly?"    
Dorian propped himself up on his hands, more than a little miffed. "If you mean  _ gentle, _ you won't see me apologize. I might be a 'degenerate,' but I'm no brute."

“But you were supposed to--to do  _ it _ to me. Not just lull.”

“Oh, we’ll do it, James.” Dorian heard the breathiness in his own voice as he said it, but no matter. He rocked his hips down to punctuate it. “However you like, just--gentle. I was gentle before, wasn’t I?” He feared suddenly that he hadn’t been. Suppose the wine and magic of that night had dulled his senses, and he’d been more coarse with this little magpie than he recalled?

“You.” James’ brow furrowed, revealing fine lines almost invisible the rest of the time. Dorian dropped a kiss there. “You were--like them. Careful. But they never did it with me. Neither of them did.”

“More fools they,” Dorian whispered, settling on one elbow (careful not to crush his prize) and tugging just a bit at the sober tie. His own ascot was near to choking coupled with the lump in his throat. “How do you want me?”

“I want s-sex.” Flames, roses, in those pretty sunkissed cheeks.

“Yes, but  _ how?” _ He nipped the Adam’s apple, rolling them onto their sides like the bed wasn’t enormous. Perils of becoming used to dormitory accommodations. “Top or bottom?”

He seemed utterly thrown by the question, and for a minute Dorian thought he might have to stutter through the explanations of a health class he wouldn't live to see taught. 

Then James buried his nose in the crook of Dorian's shoulder, tugging at the clot of silken fabric to get at his throat. "I want you inside me." 

Dorian could feel the heat of those red cheeks against his skin, the more endearing for the clumsy novelty of the line. It was novel in more ways than that--he was still used to swaggering schoolboys who thought that it was all fine and well to fool around, but taking it meant some irretrievable loss of their manhood. The shy underclassmen who'd wanted seduced he never touched, too conscious of being wanted precisely because he was untouchable. 

Warm, wet pressure tightened around his throat, biting clumsily as if to say  _ pay attention to me. _

"What did I say about playing rough?" He scolded, tapping James' nose with his finger. "Only an amateur leaves such obvious signs that he was there." But he was doing what the man wanted, wasn't he, gathering him close and  loosening the buttons of his shirt, trailing teasing kisses as he went.  James squirmed and squeaked, bursting into embarrassed laughter when Dorian's lips brushed his ribs. He looked red enough to die when he realized, and that made Dorian laugh too. 

"What's this?" He touched tentative fingers to a shiny pink scar on James' side, along the bottom of that beautiful design. It was as good as a slash through the Dancer taking her bow. 

"A present." James shifted onto his side, trying to hide the mark again.

“It’s recent.” He would have recalled such a thing, however fuzzy his mind on that night. “It--who hurt you?”

“I’m sorry,” James said, covering it with his hand. “I know that you--valued--the art. I can have it redone, in time.” The hand trembled, shivering as it hadn’t in the dead of winter while he made the offer, and Dorian wondered again how much pain must have been involved in creating those mesmerizing blue spirals.

“Who  _ hurt _ you? That’s all I asked.”

“Everyone.” He smiled a curve like a broken teacup and patted Dorian’s cheek. “No need to be a hero. He gave me this before he left, you see.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Dorian gathered him in and crushed his rose mouth in a kiss, feeling feathered black locks brushing his face. He wouldn’t weep for this now.

This was stolen time.

And James whimpered and writhed, cleaving to Dorian and exploring his body almost shyly, hands soft except for old, strange calluses playing about inside his shirt.

Dorian was burning, and they hadn’t even taken their  _ trousers _ off yet.

“Young,” James said dreamily. “I remember being young. Wanting, so much--craving it, all over and all the time. The filth I imagined. The things I did to myself…”

And perhaps Dorian was sensitive and whimpering, too. Perhaps James’ clever, trained hand at his crotch was more than mortal man should bear, perhaps the gentle squeeze of his backside made him want it all, everything his body could do all at once.

He still felt shamed tears in his eyes when he came in his pants like the schoolboy he wasn’t any longer.

James kissed him then, his tears and his lips and the curve of his jaw. His long, soft fingers undid the fastenings on Dorian's pants, slid them down as if there were something to see beside an embarrassing mess. 

"I must apologize." Dorian tried to salvage what was left of his dignity, the tattered remains of his mystique as some worldly, experienced lover. "It's be-ah!"

James' tongue ran around the painful-pleasant head of his dick, along his thighs where evidence of his fumbling remained. It was torment. 

"Stop!" He managed, taking James' shoulders through the agony. This was how a man should die. "I won't be able to stand it if you go on like that." 

"I only wanted..." He looked so sheepish, hiding his expression under his hair. 

Dorian was the one who'd been selfish to start it all, and now here he was again. "Say," he tried. "It might be a little while before I can grant your wish."

"I don't mind." James seemed perfectly serious. "I have you like this. Something no one else has seen." He was grinning, and Dorian was suddenly aware of the pink flush on his cheeks. 

"Well," he sniffed, even the tatters of his dignity now in tatters. "The least you could do is bugger me then, if you're so pleased."

He might've asked for a murder (no; he somehow thought that might not have been so surprising in this young man's life).

James reared back on his heels. “I don’t do that,” he snapped, shifty and mistrustful once more, and Dorian felt pathetic and small clinging like syrup to his shirt-trapped arms.

“Why not?” he gasped, mouth watering of a sudden to taste himself on those lips. “You know how good it feels. Don’t you--”  _ Don’t you want me, _ he wanted to cry, but James was so weirdly particular. “It would make me happy,” he tried, selfish with this greedy, dirty, sweet thing, speaking a language he might understand.

And yes, that lone eye widened and narrowed, some form of calculation in it.

“I’ll make it worth your while, I promise.” He spread his legs wide, tilting his pelvis in invitation. “Only, please.”

James’s kisses on his neck were no answer, but he hoped the hardness pressing against him was. He sought the near-imperceptible texture of the tattoos with his fingers, more sensitive than normal from sanding them to practice safe-cracking, and oh, he was glad of it, able to trace each whorl with his eyes closed, around and back and down to that awful smoothness.

He could  _ see _ his James drenched in blood, and he hated it.

The scar was long and strangely precise when he closed his eyes, down the ribs and over the hip like a surgical severing. There would have been so much blood. 

Dorian was no fool--he knew what might come of sneaking into people's hoards and taking what he liked. And he had decided that, should the time come, he'd simply have to make himself impossible to be caught. He'd flow through their hands like water, and leave them touching air. Alive. 

"Oh, darling," he sighed. feeling the pressure of that erection trapped between them when they kissed. "Hurry. I need you."

He had a small bottle of lubricant stored in the desk across the room, something that had been perfectly practical when he was alone and now was impossibly far away. 

"James," he lowered his voice to a purr, and felt a shiver go through the man on top of him. "You'll be gentle, won't you?" 

"I didn't say--" 

He was starting to fluster again, and Dorian cut him off. "I know you won't hurt me. It's only," he sat up, careful to keep the pair of them connected. "If I get up, will you go off running into the night?"

"We had a deal," James said, though they had no such thing.

Dorian pecked his cheek, suddenly fond beyond what he could bear. "Stay there." 

He got up and went to the dresser, James' eyes on him like a wary dog. He pulled out the lubricant, and the little bottle of oil besides, and took a moment to resettle his hair. In the mirror, his shirt was wrinkled and half off him, his pants trapped sliding down his knees. He kicked them off, and the shirt too, until it was only him and his silk socks. "Much better."

James looked nothing so much as confused when Dorian returned and knelt by the side of his bed with its down comforters he kicked off in the summer heat.

“Please.” Some thief. “If you don’t... “ he swallowed,  _ “want _ me yet, I can try.”

Harris tweed, brown and eternal, presentable except for the patches. Dorian rubbed his cheek against a knee, savoring the differing textures, before pressing a kiss to James’ still-covered hardness.

James was so stiff--not just his arousal, but  _ all _ of him. Still, Dorian touched and caressed, undid buttons with swiftness and skill that seemed to bewilder James when his touches finally met flesh.

And then he  _ flinched. _ “You want that, Milord?” he said in a strange, high, musical voice. “You want to be filled, made use of?”

“Made love to,” he whispered before clutching hands dragged him up into a kiss that was far from forced.

“Poor boy. Poor.” Oscar’s chest heaved as he dragged Dorian up with surprisingly strong arms and then settled atop him. “I can take care of you.”

He seemed sure as he coated his fingers, moving first too fast, too much stretching Dorian out, hesitant of a once-known quantity like the effort of straightening someone else's tie. At the first hiss of discomfort from Dorian's lips he became overcautious, leaving slippery trails on Dorian's thighs in an attempt to be thorough,  brows knotted together as if doing one of his calculations. 

Dorian had to stop him after a few minutes, after too many tantalizing fleeting taps to his prostate. "I'm ready." He gave his most winning smile, but James was frozen again. 

"It's alright," he encouraged, fighting down the frustration born of unsatisfied lust. He was not a patient man, nor a selfless one. These things didn't exactly come naturally--but it seemed crucial to make the effort.

At last he sat up, rubbing James' arm with one hand and wrapping his other around the vivid red erection between James' legs. "It's alright," he said again. 

He was too tall to comfortably straddle the small man in his bed, but he guided him forward as much as he could, carrying on with words as he lay flat again, hooking one leg over James' thin shoulder.  The moment of contact startled a gasp out of both of them, their eyes meeting with another burst of nervous almost-laughter. James scowled then, not at Dorian but almost at himself--as if betraying some image of who he ought to be in that moment.

"Just relax," James said as if Dorian hadn't been saying it to him for the past hour. The jerk of his first thrust gave way to an uncertain, irregular rhythm, close enough to burning and pleasant to be frustrating to both when they were sweaty and panting and neither of them finished. Dorian had a cramp in his thigh, and he could see James wincing when he breathed in deep. 

"I think," he said as gently as he could. "We should try something else."

“I’m sorry,” James said, thrusting harder. “I know you need--” he grabbed Dorian’s prick, which was returning to hardness despite the near-miss nature of it all.

“Don’t be,” Dorian replied, letting his head fall back, wondering how he looked. Wishing his mother would walk in  _ right now _ and see him in all his perversion under her roof, get it over with at last. His leg spasmed, and he flinched.

“What do you need, Milord?” James seemed to savor the title, running a hand up his own spare from in attempted seductiveness. And oh, yes, it was a beautiful sight, him between Dorian’s legs, beautiful and strange.  _ Real. _ But not--enough.

“Please,” Dorian said softly. “Let’s change. Unless you’re enjoying this; I want you to enjoy it.” He wanted to be a good memory, among however many others James had.

The thrusting became rougher, almost--no, definitely painful, despite all the slick and the distracting touches. He bit his lip and turned his face against a pillow.

He told himself he could bear it, that inexperience was a burden to all at one point or the other. But it hit too hard, too raw, and he couldn't help himself. "Stop!"

The contact broke, and when he sat up he found James had skittered halfway across the bed, face pale and scared in contrast with the red, sticky mess of his cock. "I told you..." 

"It's alright," Dorian said. He'd stopped, that was the most important thing. But he flinched away from Dorian's hand as it cupped his cheek. 

"I'll go." He started to retreat, to reach for his clothes and walk out of Dorian's life. 

"I can't keep you," Dorian said, honest at last. "But I wish you'd stay." The spell of sweaty frantic impulse was wearing thin at every dangerous edge and every cut.

I'll still do what you need." James' knees were drawn up to his chest, the livid scar bright on his skin. "You can just kiss me. That didn't hurt." 

He was curling in on himself. No one but a thief couldn't found their way in. "If I want to do more than that?" He didn't touch, kept his tone gentle instead of alluring. 

"Why would you?"

“Because I feel… I want to make you feel better. Give you what you need.” It was wrong to do this, pull him back in when Dorian had nothing fair to trade; he didn’t want to cheat. “Do you want me?”

“Yes!” James shoved his hands into his hair, pushing it back to show the naked fear and hunger on features less thin than they’d been in Paris. “Yes, of course! I told you, I want it.  _ Need _ it, and--I shouldn’t have complained about the way you do it.”

“If you don’t like it, you should complain.” Dorian made himself relaxed, a picture of casual unconcern. “I don’t want to force you to do--anything.” He swallowed, remembering things he’d rather not. “Don’t agree to things you don’t want, James.”

“I do want.” James crept forward like a wild bird seeking crumbs. “I do. I followed you because I liked how you did it, and you were more than fair to me. I’m not used to that sort of… ” He trailed off, hand on Dorian’s leg. “You’re a thief. They have different rules.”

He was more solid than he’d seemed before, not a wraith but a man as he climbed atop Dorian and pressed Dorian’s hands to the slatted headboard. “I always wanted to capture one.”

“You have,” Dorian whispered, holding onto the blond wood and stretching up for a kiss.

“I hope…” The rest of the sentence was lost between their lips, and then James took control, slicking Dorian and himself the other way round. “Stay still. Don’t let go,” he said before putting Dorian back inside the warmth he’d felt during the strange, terrible dream that had been his last holiday trip.

"I promise." He knew better and said it anyway. Their rhythm wasn't quite remembered but rediscovered, James' eyes squeezing shut as they found a steady pace. 

Dorian had to squeeze the headboard until his knuckles whitened just to remind himself of his own foolishness, to keep from wrapping his arms around the beautiful man on top of him. As he felt the promise of a second orgasm fogging his thoughts, he wanted at least to care for the strained, painful need between James legs--he looked a single touch away from collapse, sweat beading on his collarbone.

"Let me help you." He groaned, back arching up as James became frantic. 

"You are. This is, I." he was babbling, incoherent, squeezing himself with a merciless hand until he came shuddering and choked; and the sight of it brought Dorian over the edge too. 

He gathered James to him then, both of them sticky and smelling of sex, and kissed the top of his head. James' heart was beating rabbit-fast against his, even in the post-climax haze. 

"Was it alright?" He said, so soft Dorian almost didn't hear it. 

"Wonderful," he said, pretending not to hear the strangled hitch in James' breath. He sat up, cradling James to his chest.

“Good.”

"Yes. But we've made a mess of things." He traced patterns on James' back, new ones, holding tight so that James couldn't bolt.  "I think what we need is a bath." The enormous clawfoot had to be good for something. "Much better, don't you think? The mafia do it all the time." He didn't have a steam room, but it hardly mattered.

"I..." James looked faintly shellshocked. 

"James," Dorian kissed him as gently as he could, until they both had to part for air. "You won't run away, will you?"

“I told you why I was here.” He looked both solemn and excited, a living energy vibrating through him along with the aftershocks of the orgasm, and he  _ clung _ to Dorian.

“Mr. James--Oscar--” Strange to use the given name only now, after all they’d done.

“Mr. James. James. Milord.”

Dorian froze partway through arranging his mother’s linens in a sort of crude toga about the other man.

“Ah.” He said. Like--schoolmates. Chin up. “I apologize for presuming. Won’t happen again.” He turned away to shrug on his red silk bath robe.

“No!” James clutched his arm, face twisted with distress. “I chose this one. It didn’t mean much, but  _ I _ chose it. I’d like you to use it.”

_ Who chose before? _ Dorian wanted to ask, but now wasn’t the time. If there ever  _ would _ be a time. So he pressed a kiss to James’ sweaty hair and led him down the hall, bare feet on thick carpeting utterly silent, to the bath.

(One more chance to touch, and feel, and soothe. And remember, when he was away at university, hair cut off and interests buried. Thieves shouldn’t feel guilt, but this stolen gap of time was too precious, and he’d slipped past all too many guards.)

After, they lay together on Dorian’s stripped bed, skin steaming faintly and hair sure to dry into unpleasant shapes, and Dorian confessed.

"James," Dorian replied. "I can't--keep you. I haven't the money, and I can't do what  _ he _ did. I want you, but..." He choked on the thought of it.

"I told you, I'm good with money. I was sometimes a forensic accountant; it's just as important to know what happens  _ after _ it's stolen as before." That smile was back, secretive and pleased. "I know all sorts of tricks," he confided. "If you want me." 

"What did you have in mind?" There was no distance for negotiation, literal or metaphorical. James' clothes smelled of having been slept in, more than once, and his hair was as haphazard as his hems. Dorian already wanted to clean him up, style him, polish him until he gleamed. 

"Aren't you an Earl?" James asked. 

"Yes, but..." 

James' eyes turned hard. "With the current state of financing for your family estate, they'll have to sell soon. The market's dropping out--they'll never get what it's worth. They'll take anyone on credit, just to get rid of it. Someone who can offer cash will be irresistible, no matter how unwanted they are otherwise." 

Dorian rocked back on his heels, stunned. "I haven't any money," he reminded him, his normally quick mind sluggish and stunned. 

"You can steal, can't you?" 

"Well, but," his lip stuck out ever so sightly. "They're so lovely. I hate to be rid of them."

James snorted. It was so dismissive, so… human. "Don't just take what you want. Take all of it! I'll sell it. And invest it. You'll have so much money..." His voice sounded dreamy. 

"That's what you want from this, then?" People didn't rely on him. People wanted things from him. That's just the way it was. 

"I could make money on my own."

"With Armand."

"That's not why I was with him." The longer they talked the more quickly and forcefully James spoke, as though the skill hadn't been used in far too long and was only just returning. "And--this  _ is _ what you want, isn't it? Thieving? It's a  _ life _ , My Lord. It's  _ people _ and work and changing your face every day." He pulled Dorian down hard, surprising strength in his small frame. "It's taking what you want, before someone else does."

His breath smelled of peppermints, the kind you got on the pillow at a hotel, and Dorian kissed him again, or was kissed, perhaps. James was forceful with it, needy even, and he took the lead just enough to get Dorian folded into the chair with him.

"This is mad," Dorian half-laughed. "You're going to steal  _ me _ !"

"They can try and get you back if they want." James waved vaguely at the mantel, where photos of Dorian's mother and sisters dwelt.

"They won't."

"Nor me. Unclaimed property."

"Valuable." And when Dorian said that in earnest, something seemed to break loose in James' black glass eyes. Tears, real ones, welled, and he clung as one who would never let go.

 

*

 

It took a little less than a year. James was completely impossible: stubborn, brutally stingy about the littlest things, and quick-tempered when Dorian flirted with strangers (which was, to him, as natural as breathing). He folded himself into Dorian's shadow as if he'd always been there, and everything that Dorian gave he took. 

James was there when Dorian put on a perfectly tailored suit, combed out hair now grown into a full and wild mane, and walked into the real estate office. His eyes were diamond-hard haggling with the broker, his smile after sweet and pleased as he counted the few thousands he'd saved by way of utter shamelessness. 

"Are you happy, Milord?" James asked when they stood on the threshold of Dorian's childhood home. He held a calculator in his free hand, figuring the cost of the next heist. They still had to be careful; more elaborate jobs were impossible with just two men, skilled though they were. 

There was a thought. A whole team of beautiful men, there of their own choice. Adults, outcasts with nowhere to go--nothing like Price or Courtenay or the rest of Dorian’s father's "friends" with their predatory eyes, their supposed “kindness” in taking in the young. The castle certainly had enough rooms. And his mother would hate it. 

"Dorian?" James' voice was uncertain now, wavering. 

He scooped his accountant, his shadow, up and carried him over the threshold, kissing him soundly. James was a puddle in his arms by the time he drew back. 

"Thank you." He smiled. "I'd be lost without you." 

James let him spread the money over the lavish four poster bed in the master bedroom before throwing him down on it. He made him help pick it up afterward, too. But that was part of his charm.


End file.
